Lothaire (Immortals After Dark #12)(133)

He wondered what the Daci would think of their new king if they found out he carried his Bride’s lingerie in his pocket at all times.

But then, what maddened vampire king didn’t carry his queen’s lingerie in his pocket?

“The capital is boring,” he told Stelian. It was—even though other species were welcomed here. Provided they never left.

Which meant there were nymphs to take care of randy young vampires like Mirceo.

“You do remain within the mist when you go abroad?” Stelian asked. “Unseen by all?”

“How else would I be able to return?” Lothaire-speak. He’d ordered Hag to devise a beacon for him alone—because sometimes Lothaire liked to be seen.

Part of him wanted to outlaw the mist completely, to make his subjects announce themselves to the world. Otherwise, Lothaire was just the king of a realm that no one knew existed.

In other words, he was the tree in the forest that silently fell—when no one was around to be crushed.

But the cocooning mist did protect the Daci from invasion and plague. Plus, with every excursion, they were basically all out spying, which he wholeheartedly endorsed. . . .

His impetuous cousin Viktor said, “I understand that you observed our soldiers sparring. What did you think of them?” He was a general, and justifiably proud of his battalions.

The army was honed, disciplined, and masterful with swords. In fact, the Daci were obsessed with all medieval arms—maces, throwing daggers, whips, battle-axes.

As soon as a Dacian wielded a weapon, a coldblooded single-

mindedness suffused him. Already ruled by logic, he became even more focused, able to predict his opponent’s moves.

Much as I do.

“The soldiers were a shade too worried about martial honor,” Lothaire answered. All that skill and might—and yet they waged no wars but among themselves? “Not to worry, Viktor. I’ll see to that. In any case, they will serve me well enough in my war against the Horde. Unless you’re concerned about the defense of my hidden kingdom.”

Viktor tensed, clenching his fists beneath the table. Blooded or no, he had a brash, querulous nature that ensured he was a loner among the reserved and logical Daci.

And Lothaire’s fair “niece”?

Though Kosmina was twenty, she’d been sheltered by the overprotective male royals to a damaging degree.

Apparently, Lothaire’s naked male body had been the first she’d ever seen.

Pity, Mina, that you’ll forever find all others lacking in comparison to Uncle Lothaire.

Yet though she was so ignorant of sex and sin as to be childlike, Kosmina was a killing machine, a mistress at arms with blazing reflexes.

Half simpering schoolgirl, half lethal assassin.

Lothaire had noticed that her ears were pointed, compliments of some fey ancestor—who’d also gifted her with that uncanny speed. He asked her now, “And what is your function? Or do you exist only to be coddled?”

Face hot, she stuttered, “I-I . . .”

Lothaire talked over her, saying, “I understand you have never ventured outside of Dacia, wouldn’t know an automobile if it hit you in the face, which it might—if you’re not, say, familiar with f*cking cars.”

Her eyes went wide.

He should send her forth from Dacia, dispatching her to investigate a particularly rambunctious covey of nymphs in Louisiana. “Kosmina, you are distantly related to a female called Ivana the Bold. Act like it.”

Covering her mouth with her hand, she traced away.

Lastly, he turned to his cousin Trehan, an assassin in charge of an elite band of killers. He was the most dignified of all the cousins, the most “Dacian” of them, and so the least amusing to spy on. He often stared off into nothing, doubtless thinking about whatever Bride had blooded him, then left him.

Lothaire steepled his fingers. “Ah, Trehan, only a female could make you look like that.”

“You would know,” he replied icily.

While Mirceo was out glutting himself in every murky corner of Dacia, Trehan always traced back to his apartments alone, spending his lusts into his own hand, often multiple times in a night—while Lothaire rolled his eyes in disgust.

Yet don’t I do the same?

Not for long; Lothaire had decided that after this meeting, he would reacquaint himself with other females.

He was an all-powerful king, and he’d definitely read interest as he’d walked the cobblestone streets of his realm. Evidently, his subjects still enjoyed pretty on the outside.

Yes, an all-powerful monarch was about to commence his hunt for a bevy of concubines. So where was the happiness?

Lost.

He now knew what he was missing, because he’d felt it briefly—even before he’d had his crown.

Lothaire had concluded that each being had a unique key to his or her happiness. Mine was Elizabeth. Because of her actions, she’d robbed Lothaire of his key.

His fangs sharpened. He’d killed others for less. If you’re not with me, you’re against me. . . . His instinct was to punish, his mind seizing on revenge.

“My liege?” Stelian said, brows raised. “What revenge are we contemplating this eve?”

Have I spoken aloud? “We’ll resume this at a later date,” Lothaire bit out, then traced to his suite, pacing from one side of his bedroom to the other.